


And That Means The World To Me

by crystalblinks (orphan_account)



Series: Cigarettes and Paradise [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-06
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-19 20:11:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8223391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crystalblinks
Summary: He’d told me once that he was created by a lake, on a weekend taken by two young lovers in the swallows of spring. He said this fondly, eyes like the surface of the ocean glazed over, his fingers intertwined with mine, his spirit intertwined with mine.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Kendrick Lamar's song Untitled Five

 

 

  1. He told me once that if he could have been  anything in this catastrophe of a world, he would've been a writer. I knew that the only thing he could write was his name, but the sentiment, the far off look in his eyes it meant more than just lost aspirations, more than just anecdote or conversation. It meant that he trusted me with his desires. 



 

  1. The way he said my name was always rough, choked up in it's own reverence. _‘Challa._ There were days when I only heard my name in between moans and cries of pleasure as he writhed underneath me, his eyes lidded, heavy. _T’Challa._ There were days when the only time I’d hear it was on the answering machine in our house, vacant of his warmth, but it always sounded the same, a deep rasp, harsh with love and admiration. 



 

  1. His favorite season was spring. He abhorred the burns that coated his skin during the summer, the endless urging to take part in the adventures of heat. Autumn was always accompanied by his hair whipping in his face, cloaking crystalline eyes in stands of auburn. Winter reminded him of too many pasts, too many lives he’d lived under the cloaking of the powder. But spring was always accompanied with his laughter, and little flowers that would find their way into his hair by the end of the sun’s tirade.



 

  1. I’d come to associate smoke with him, the way his mouth curved around the exhale, the exhilaration. He’d lamented his mortality by claiming that it was one of the only things that made him feel human. That was the same sentiment he’d share with me wrapped up in sheets with his hands mapping patterns on my back, his body connected with mine, lips murmuring, exhaling onto my neck.



 

  1. He’d told me once that he was created by a lake, on a weekend taken by two young lovers in the swallows of spring. He said this fondly, eyes like the surface of the ocean glazed over, his fingers intertwined with mine, his spirit intertwined with mine. And I realized then, lulled into solace by his voice that there was something about his presence, calming and powerful that reminded me of the rushing waters. 




End file.
